Sunday Mornings
by juneprota
Summary: [SLASH] Sunday mornings are about as perfect as the world gets. GregWarrick


**Sunday Mornings  
**

It always amazes me how music can bring you back to a moment. You can listen to a song and all of a sudden you're thirteen years old and living with your grandmother. It can make you feel at home. It can evoke feelings of peace and safety. A song can make the world right.

Grams loved music. She taught me how to play piano. Taught me how to sing too. She's the one that introduced me to jazz and the blues, music that people my age seem to know nothing about. Every Sunday morning she would tune into her favorite radio station. It played a mix of jazz, R&B, and real soul. Music about dreams and forever and need. Not the stuff that's at the top of the charts today.

Every Sunday morning, I'd wake up to the sound of music and her voice. She'd always play the music just a bit too loud, something I attributed to her being a little older and probably a little deaf. I could always hear it clear as day in my upstairs bedroom.

Sundays were important to Grams. She'd get up at 7:00am and turn on the radio. It almost always woke me up. Instead of going downstairs to join her, I'd stay in bed just listening to her move around. She'd open the front door to bring in the newspaper before she started making breakfast. It was always something small. Toast, eggs, bacon. And I always knew there'd be a plate for me to warm up later. Just as I would hear a plate being placed on the kitchen counter, there'd be someone fiddling with the door. Aunt Bertha had a key to let herself in. Grams would set another plate on the counter for her. They would eat and talk and gossip for an hour or so, before Grams would come upstairs to get ready for church.

When I turned thirteen, Grams let me choose whether I would go to church or not. Up until then I had to go with her and Aunt Bertha every Sunday. Church was part of the reason I stayed in bed every Sunday, actually. Sometimes if Grams saw me before she left I'd be forced to attend with a "boy, you could use some church." I didn't hate church, but if I had the choice between it and staying home...well to a thirteen year old boy the answer was pretty obvious.

Grams would take her time getting ready, making sure she looked good for the pastor and the deacons. I swear Sunday service was more of a fashion show for the ladies than a gathering of God-fearing folks. While Grams was getting ready, Aunt Bertha would touch up her make-up. After taking a few more minutes to chat they would finally go downstairs to leave. They'd both yell out a "bye Warrick" before heading out the door. We all knew I was pretending to sleep to get out of going to church. But I still did it every Sunday.

And that's what Sundays were about for me. They were about family and being close to them, knowing them, loving them. They were about possibility and hope, not having a care in the world, having an entire day...week...life ahead of you. The sunlight would shine through my bedroom window and I'd know that everything was perfect in that one moment. There was just something so oddly comforting about Sunday mornings. How could anything go wrong when everyone you love is under the same roof?

And the music. Well, the music takes me back.

Sunday mornings back then were great. But this Sunday morning isn't too bad either. Grams isn't with me anymore, but someone I love almost as much is in the upstairs bedroom. I've been working dayshift for awhile now and for the life of me I still can't get myself to sleep in on the weekends. I woke up at 7:00 this morning and went downstairs to turn on my digital radio, a gift from Greg after one of my many lectures on the lack of real music played on regular radio. I picked up my paper from the front porch, and made some coffee and toast. It's only 9:00am and I'm done reading the paper and eating breakfast. And Greg is still upstairs. I know he can't be asleep. He usually wakes up a few minutes after me. He's probably just wasting the morning away, which doesn't sound like that bad of an idea right about now. I guess it's time to reinstate one of my old Sunday morning traditions.

I walk upstairs to our bedroom, and Greg's lying in bed on his stomach. There's a sheet covering his hips and legs. Sunlight is falling on his back and hair. He doesn't sit up when he sees me, just smiles. "I was waiting for you." He reaches out toward me half-heartedly. "Come back to bed."

I climb into bed with him, getting under the sheet. And, within seconds, we're in our usual position. His head is resting on my chest, his arm is across my waist, and my fingers are playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. I don't think things could be better than this.

Sunday mornings are about as perfect as the world gets.


End file.
